


There's a Dead Canary in the Coal Mine

by Eatgreass



Series: The slow descent [1]
Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Kind of a character study, ophelia is smart and capable, tw suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eatgreass/pseuds/Eatgreass
Summary: Madness and anger only multiplies when two are standing proximate to each other, growing in sync.
Series: The slow descent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899646
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	There's a Dead Canary in the Coal Mine

**Author's Note:**

> I am not immune to using song lyrics as titles anyway it's from mercy down by James Shayfer
> 
> Also important to note- if you didn't knew stew is another word for brothel in the Elizabethan era.

A pawn.

That’s what Ophelia really was to the rest of the castle, a pawn. No matter how brilliant her mind, how cunning her thoughts, how  _ good  _ she could have been at running a kingdom, all she could be was a pawn. 

Because a stupid boy was supposed to be in love with her. 

She hoped he was, and she knew he wasn’t, and she didn’t  _ want  _ to be in love with the prince, because she would not be a pawn to somebody else's destiny. 

Not that she hated her father, or any of his … well, friends was a strong word. Conspirators, maybe. He was the closest person to her, and knew more about her than anybody else, save her own self. They had grown closer, both of them, after the death of Lady Polonius. Laertes, he was a different story, for his relationship with his mother was one he clung to, and his relationship with his father was still strained. Ophelia was grateful that somebody truly knew her for somebody other than the naive child she presented in court, but damn, did she hate being a player in a game.

She wasn’t in the business of lying to herself, so she knew how much she despised him for the leverage that he used her for. She was used to push him farther towards his ambitions, but you can love and hate somebody at the same time, and that was the story of Ophelia's life. 

With her father and Claudius hid behind a drapery, watching her intently, she knew she had to put on a show. Somehow, she must not show her real emotions while putting them on full display in the same breath.

And when Hamlet walked into the room, she wasn’t prepared. Her father had shoved a book of prayers into her hand, and when she looked up at Hamlet, it was not the prince that she had known since a child. His doublet was unlaced, his socks fell about his feet, he looked gaunt and his hair was a ragged mess. He looked quite mad, and Ophelia did not doubt the validity of that madness. Although it  _ had  _ come on very quickly. 

When he started to talk, all bets were off. 

She  _ knew  _ him, but at the same time they were terribly, terribly distant. He was sharp as a tack and quick as a whip, and had his biting comments been directed at someone other than her, she would've believed him to be the same Hamlet she had known for her entire life. 

Ophelia wasn’t a crier. So when her dearest friend in the palace told her that she was nothing but a whore, that she was a tool, that she wanted nothing but riches from him, she stood with her face a stone cold mask. 

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to hit him.

She wished she had a dagger in her hand right then, so she could take out her rage on something, or on someone.

But such thoughts were unbecoming to a lady, especially one like her, so she sat on it, stewing in her own anger as she took the abuse dealt out to her. 

“Stewing in my anger,” she thought. There was something absurdly funny about the line that had popped into her head. “Perhaps I am merely a whore, albeit one that only fucks with anger that will never see the light of day.”

She took it in stride. She took his madness and his anger directed at every living thing in the castle, and she took it from him, and let it grow in herself. 

Madness and anger only multiplies when two are standing proximate to each other, growing in sync.

Ophelia's rage was simmering just underneath the surface, and Hamlets was exploding outward, daring,  _ delighting  _ the challenge of others.

Hamlet's rage turned outward, towards his mother, and the king, and her  _ father,  _ and it grew like a vine strangling those he crossed paths with.

Hers grew inward, a cancer to herself. Even as she served the palace in the vain hope that she could make it right, Ophelia's own anger choked her down, mocking her intentions with a sour whisper of pain. 

In the end, they both died. 

His death was fitting, with all the people he had mocked and turned against him coming back to him and silencing his siren’s song. 

Hers was inward as she let the rage consume her and fester in her until there was nothing left to do but stride fearlessly into a lake that would take her straight to hell.

But Ophelia? Even as she marched into the water, there was nobody left to tell her tale. 

All that was left was a body to be thrown at the crossroads at a brawl to be started on her grave. 

**Author's Note:**

> check out my tumblr @eatgreass or @king-of-a-walnut to see me ramble!


End file.
